Sorry in advance for what I'm about to do to you lovely people, but I can't be alone in these feelings anymore. Ariel Levy's essay in the latest issue of the New Yorker is devastating, grim, bleak, and... beautiful. And it's the best thing I've read, on the internet or elsewhere, in a long time.

"Thanksgiving in Mongolia" details a personal tragedy Levy faced and dealt with alone while traveling in Asia, and the ensuing emotional fallout upon her return. Don't dive into this piece if you're feeling fragile; I started the day positively loopy and I had to stop reading it and cry three times before I made it all the way through; I cried partly for Levy and partly because her essay forces the reader to confront the terrifying notion that "it will be okay" is a mostly-meaningless platitude. Maybe it won't be okay. But you — and Levy, and untold millions — go on.